Dressed to Kill Read online

  She greeted me as soon as I came through the wood and glass door like she’d been expecting me the entire time. And with Blood already in the house, that might have been the case.

  “You beautiful baby,” I said, as I took her in my arms, kissed her luscious wet lips.

  “You’re right about that, Keeper Marconi,” she said when I released her. “And I’m proud to own it.” She gave me a look, one eye open, the other closed. “Been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  I patted my belly. “Been trying to curb the carbs.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re switching to light beer. The world will never be the same.”

  I cocked my head. “Never. But I have been drinking a little more red wine these days.”

  “Fancy for a private dick. And Val approves of this move, no doubt.” A question.

  The Val she spoke of was my long-time, brunette-haired on again/off again girlfriend and former Girl Friday from my days as a warden. We’d nearly married once, but the ceremony ended before it began when my first wife’s killer showed up in Albany. But that’s another story for another time.

  “Yes, Val approves.” I didn’t quite have the heart to tell her that Val and I weren’t speaking at the moment. But I diverted her attention from my schizophrenic relationship by making a scan of the long barroom. I said, “So, is he here?”

  Usually, you could feel Blood’s presence without having to spot him. And today was no exception. Despite my inquiry, I could almost feel the big man’s aura like you might feel a ghost that’s just passed through your flesh and bone.

  Tess raised her thumb, gestured over her shoulder.

  “He’s got a cold one waiting for you, darling,” she said, making her way behind the antique bar. “No red wine for you today. Not in this joint.”

  I negotiated my way through the humble collection of summertime day drinkers until I came to the end of the bar where Blood was seated on a stool. At six feet plus, he looked like a stone statue that had been hewn out of dark marble. He towered over me, but he never made me feel small. That was the kind of gift he had. A God given gift.

  I sat down on the empty stool beside him, took hold of my Budweiser long neck, stole a deep drink.

  “That’s okay,” he said in his strong but almost monotone manner. “You don’t have to say hello.”

  I set the bottle down and wiped the foam from my lips with the back of my hand.

  “Question of priorities,” I said. “I can either drink or talk. Which would you choose?”

  He had a vodka martini set in front of him. Two green olives impaled on a toothpick lounging inside the clear, slightly cloudy liquid. Shaken not stirred, just like that other renowned slick 007 man of action and international intrigue preferred.

  “Sometimes I think you’re borderline racist,” he said, lifting his filled-to-the-brim glass slowly by the stem, not spilling a drop, taking a careful sip without making a sound. He set the glass back down and exhaled slowly. “Perfect. Tess knows her mixology.”

  “That she does,” I said. “And I’m no racist. I’m sitting here with you right now, aren’t I?”

  “You’re just sitting here because you look more attractive to the ladies when you’re near me.”

  He had a point. Blood was a magnet for men who wanted to be him, and women who wanted to be with him. A former semi-pro Albany Metro Maulers football player and a former inmate at Green Haven Prison during my tenure, Blood was proof positive that a con could not only be reformed but that, once on the outside, could thrive. His crime, if you wanted to call it that, the one that put him away for seven to ten, involved the killing of a ruthless gangbanger who’d cut the throat of a teenage girl he’d just raped inside a dark, damp back alley. If you were to ask Blood about it, which you most certainly should not, he would tell you he’d do it all over again.

  Right is right, and wrong can be so dead wrong sometimes.

  Nowadays, he presided like a king over most of upper Sherman Street where my home office was located, and even the cops asked his permission first before making a bust in that general vicinity. Today, he was wearing his standard uniform of black jeans, boots, and black T-shirt which fit his sculpted muscles like a second skin. Blood was my gym rat partner, not because it felt good being around him, but because he was something to physically aspire too.

  His intellect was no slouch either. Having completed his undergraduate degree and earning an MA in English lit while in the can, he’d become a brilliant source of information and an even more brilliant researcher. He was also good with a gun, and unlike today’s politicians and priests, he was physiologically incapable of telling a lie. It was quite possible that he was as close to perfection as God had come when he created man in his own image. And Blood knew it too.

  “Glad you’re available,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at a small gathering of women, one of whom, a blonde, dressed in a dark blue mini skirt and matching jacket, had one blue eye locked on her stable of friends and another on Blood. I guessed it was possible she was looking at me, but if I were a betting man…

  I cleared my throat. “Thought you might still be working as a research assistant for that writer, Reece Johnston,” I said. “What’s the title of his new book again? Everything Burns?”

  “He finished his new book. He’s taking time off.”

  “Glad to hear it. You look into Dannemora?”

  “You never got up there when you were bossing me around down in Green Haven?” he asked.

  “No one went up there if they didn’t have to, Blood. It’s north of Plattsburgh. Snows ten months out of the year I’m told.”

  He took another sip of his martini, then shot a hint of a smile at the blonde…a generous display of emotion for Blood. I thought she might melt.

  “Not quite ten months out of the year, but close. Folks up there, prisoners and civies, call the place Little Siberia. Get this. Four thousand damaged souls live there, three thousand of them inmates. Some houses surround the prison walls. Nothing special. Constructed during the Second World War for the guards who watched over Nazi POWS incarcerated in the prison. Pretty much just a single main street that borders the joint. They got a Stewart’s convenience store with three self-service gas pumps, a Price Chopper supermarket, a Dannemora Federal Credit Union for the Corrections Officers, a diner, a McDonald’s, a Wendy’s, and a Chinese restaurant called Fangs. That’s about it.”

  I stole another sip of beer. “What, no Burger King? No wonder those cons wanted out.”

  “Fast food? Not for those white boys. They were honor block. They cooked primo chopped sirloin on their own grill right up there on the cat walk,” he said.

  “So I’ve heard. Security been lax up there?”

  “Yup.”

  “Think that’s why Governor Valente extended the personal touch, appealed to me personally with his merry band of goons?”

  “Yup.”

  “He says it’s an inside job. Think that’s true?”

  “Yup.”

  “Warden in a shitload of trouble, then.”

  “Yup.”

  “You ever say nope?”

  “Yup.”

  I drank more beer. Finished the bottle. Blood drank down the rest of his martini. He held up the glass for Tess, and without so much as a syllable, persuaded her to drop what she was doing and begin making him another one. Over my shoulder, I glanced once again at the blonde bombshell. Both her blue eyes were now locked on Blood like I didn’t exist.

  “How do you do it?” I said, not needing to explain myself further.

  “It’s a talent. You’re born with it.”

  “Must have been a bitch in the joint.”

  “Inmates knew better than to lay a horny hand on me. I knew better than to get in trouble on the outside again. Now I’m sitting here with you, my former super, employing me, drinking with me, kibitzing with me. All worked out in the end, you dig?” Blood explained.

  “You didn’t just say, you dig?”
<
br />   “Been watching more than my fair share of those ’70s movies and television on Hulu. Blackula, Bruce Lee, Mod Squad. Stuff like that. People was cool back then. Used cool language and euphemisms.”

  Tess brought his martini and another beer for me. She blew each of us a kiss and patted my hand before she scooted back down to the other end of the bar.

  “She likes you,” he said.

  “She’s batting for the other team.”

  “Can’t have it all ways. ’Sides, you got Val.”

  I coughed.

  “Okay, you got Val now and again,” he pointed out.

  “Mostly again. But me, I’m free as an eagle.”

  “And just as bald. Think we can find these two fence-jumping cons?” he asked.

  “They went under the fence, and yes, they won’t get far with you and me on their trail.”

  “Every law enforcement official from Plattsburgh to Canada is searching for them.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “What’s the skinny on Moss?” Blood asked.

  “Forty-nine. Loner. Killed his boss over a paycheck dispute. Dismembered the body. Also did time in a Mexican joint for murder over a drug deal gone bad. Smart, sensitive, but volatile. An artist. A good artist from the limited research I conducted in the single hour you gave me. Probably the brains behind the entire operation.”

  “Sweet?”

  “The crazy one. Computer geek. The type who’d stay up for days and nights on end in his underwear, smoking meth and hacking into government servers. Shot a sheriff’s dep not once, but twenty-two times. Reloaded three times. He then drove his pickup truck over him four or five times just because he could. Forensics had to ID the poor bastard by his teeth. Fucked up situation, you ask me.”

  “Dangerous. Think they’re armed?”

  “Lots of hunters from up that way. Most likely scenario is they found a cabin, broke into it, and found a weapon or two. Shotguns more than likely. Maybe .30-30s. Knives, axes, who knows what else,” I offer.

  “Most hunters would know better than to keep weapons lying around the cabins all summer long. Kids always bust into those places.”

  “Some of the hunters from New York City can’t bring weapons back into Manhattan because of the Lincoln Laws. So, they leave them upstate. Unlocked,” I explain. “You good with getting us some weapons besides sidearms? We’re also going to need flashlights, bug spray, knives, tents, the whole kit and caboodle. Just in case we gotta camp out for a while.”

  “Caboodle?” he said. “What’s a caboodle?”

  “How should I know?”

  “White people are strange. No wonder a black man is president.”

  “The president is half white.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “No truer words.” Then, “Oh, before I forget.”

  Retrieving the envelope Valente passed on to me from the inside pocket on my blazer. I tore it open and pulled out the check.

  “Sizeable,” I said.

  Blood leaned in, looked at the three zeros printed after the numeral five. “Cover my costs anyway. For a few days.”

  “Good help will cost you,” I said, sticking my fingers back inside the envelope once more, coming back out with a business card that had Valente’s private cell number penned on it, and something else too. A yellow Post-It-Note upon which was scrawled a Chinese smiley face. Handwritten below the face were the words, “Have a nice day!” with an exclamation point. The handwriting was cheerful and happy. Ironic.

  “Now that’s racist,” Blood said. “Poor Chinese can’t get no breaks.”

  I recognized the note right away from the television and online reports.

  “It’s the Post-It-Note Sweet and Moss left behind on the pipe beside the opening they cut out of it.” Another drink of beer. “Why do you suppose Valente included it in the envelope?”

  “That’s state’s evidence. He must have had his reasons.”

  Pulling out my wallet, I folded the note and slipped it inside along with the check and business card. I finished my beer and Blood drained his martini. He also ate the two, now vodka-soaked, green olives.

  “I think I’m ready for the woods,” he said, sliding off the stool, standing tall, fit, and ready for anything. Even the blonde bombshell coming our way.

  “Don’t look now,” I said, stepping aside, allowing her to enter our space.

  “Got a date for tonight, big fella?” she said, a grin planted on her pretty face.

  “You don’t mess around with small talk do you, little lady?” Blood said.

  She swayed slightly. “I’m a drittle lunk,” she said. Then, giggling, “I mean, I a lunkle riddle…Oh crap, you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Blood said. He took her little hand in his, caressed it. “Sadly, I’m on my way to work. But another time perhaps.”

  He then leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek. I thought she’d faint, so I made ready by standing foursquare behind her. When he released her hand, he started for the door. Blonde Bombshell silently watched the black god exit the bar.

  “I’m Keeper,” I said after a beat, holding out my hand. “Keeper Marconi.”

  “How nice for you,” she said, walking away.

  Chapter Five

  There any more peanut butter, Picasso?”

  “No. How about you get off your ass, end this vacation now, and head to the Stop and Shop and get us some?”

  Derrick Sweet shifts his head on the cot pillow so that he’s looking up at Reginald Moss from only a foot and half above the concrete floor of the secluded underground bunker. His fingers jammed into the mostly empty Skippy smooth peanut butter jar, he chuckles.

  “I’m resting. Recharging my batteries. We got a long walk ahead of us now that Joyce decided to shaft us…bitch that she is. And to think of all the time we spent servicing her. Don’t seem right, Picasso.” He tosses the empty plastic jar across the single room, 1950s era shelter. “By the way, you were kidding about the Stop and Shop run, right? I mean, that would be, like, stupid, right? Am I right?”

  Moss crosses thick arms over barrel chest. His shoulders are stained shit brown from crawling through the pipe that led directly to the sewer main and eventually to a manhole that opened up onto Main Street in downtown Dannemora. The escape had gone off without a hitch except for one thing: Joyce Mathews and their getaway vehicle never showed.

  “I knew that bitch didn’t want her husband dead,” he mumbles. “She caved, chickened out at the last minute and now we gotta either steal a car or go north to Canada. Only thing that’s gone our way is the location of this shelter.”

  “Steal a car. That sounds like a better plan. Got my heart set on Mexico, Picasso.”

  Moss steps over to an easy chair covered in a red and black checked wool blanket. He grabs hold of one of two pump-action shotguns that rest against it. He pumps the action, allows a #3 buckshot shell to enter the chamber.

  “The woods up there are crawling,” he says. “Only a matter of time ’til they stumble on us. Way I see it is this: we either hoof it back through the woods to Dannemora and find a car to steal, which is like entering back into the hornet’s nest, or we find another town and steal a car there.”

  “Okay, Picasso,” Sweet says from down on the cot, examining the nails on his fingers, “we can’t go back home, so to speak. So, where’s the nearest town? Gnome, Alaska?”

  Moss turns, approaches the far concrete wall which supports a large framed topo map of the six-million-acre Adirondack State Park. He studies it for a moment. Until he raises his right hand, index finger extended, and pokes an area to the direct east of the underground shelter.

  “Willsboro,” he says after a time.

  “Never heard of it,” Sweet says.

  “There’s a shocker,” Moss spits back, his eyes glued to the small settlement nestled in the middle of thick woods, streams, lakes, and mountains. At least that’s the way it looks according to the map’s brown, green, and blue
topographical makeup. “It’s a long walk, though. Woods are gonna be jam packed with cops and troopers. Better we travel at night.”

  Just then, the sound of muted voices. Several muted voices all talking over one another. The voices come to them via the air ducts that connect the shelter interior to the exterior above.

  Sweet sits up fast. “That what I think it is, Picasso?”

  Shifting himself back to the easy chair, Moss grabs hold of the second shotgun.

  “They’re fucking coming,” he barks. “Looks like we’re going nowhere for now.”

  “So, what do we do, then?”

  “Maintain silence until I say otherwise.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means shut the fuck up, asshole.”

  Chapter Six

  Two hours later, including a stop at Dick’s Sporting Goods, we were driving north on the highway in my recently refurbished fire engine red Toyota 4Runner. It was mid-June, so we had plenty of sunshine for a drive that would take us somewhere around three and a half hours from Albany. We were dressed in clothing better suited for the great outdoors than Albany’s downtown concrete jungle.

  Like any other day, I was wearing a pair of Levi jeans, but instead of cowboy boots for footwear, I had on a pair of Chippewa lace-up work boots with indestructible Vibram soles over wool socks. It was topped with a black cotton T-shirt that bore the words Bomb Squad from a favorite thriller series of mine, an olive green work shirt over that, and finally, a waterproof windbreaker with lots of pockets for my smartphone, compass, combo walkie-talkie GPS finder, waterproof matches, toilet paper, water purifying pills, granola bars, a Swiss Army knife, and other assorted necessities should I get lost in the woods for a few days.

  I also carried a Colt .45 strapped to my chest and two extra magazines should I suddenly find myself needing to shoot a bear.